I paint my brow thick with crimson aspiration;
Mine is the scent of fresh blood and old leather.
I have slept little since I began making preparations,
But I dream of dark forests, wet fur, and frozen weather.
My skin is hot -- not with fever, nor disease of the body;
I am alive, every hair follicle stiff, my muscles and veins throbbing.
My flesh drips salty sweat, holy oil, and musk of animal longing,
As I scrape blade upon hide, cutting and braiding strips for flogging.
T'was the night before Christmas and all thro’ Claus Castle,
Not a sound could be heard save the chains as they rattled.
Santa's wrists were bound, locked with great care
And his hocks strung up with tinsel; held fast to the chair.
Mistress Claus nestled her furs, languoring nearby on the bed,
Whist visions of her milk and cookies danced in Santa's bald head.
She sprang forth from the bed like a cat from the rafters;
The reindeer shifted in their stables -- such was the clatter.
She shifted her hips with a twist and the fur slipped off;
Santa's eyes grew wide and his face fell white as frost,
For moonlight glowed on her breasts like new fallen snow,
Giving the luster of midday to Santa's naked objects below... [Click Below to Continue Reading]